


My Songs Know What You Did in the Dark

by f0rever15elf



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: F/M, Food mention, Mobster AU, Pedro Pascal - Freeform, alcohol mention, death mention
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:27:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27197819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/f0rever15elf/pseuds/f0rever15elf
Summary: New York City is a bustling place, full of light and glamor. But what most don’t know, is that there is an unseen driving force that runs this city. It’s a remnant of the era of Al Capone, a remnant that no one talks about, not if you were smart. You, like many in this city, are blissfully unaware of their existence, so when a mysterious masked man stumbles into your life and insists you only refer to him as Mando, you’re left confused and intrigued. He seems lonely, and your can’t help but reach out for him. But it is a dangerous life he leads, and Mando is determined to keep you as far from it as he can, while still catering to the selfishness of wanting you in his life. When a sting goes wrong, that all changes.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Reader, Din Djarin/You, The Mandalorian x reader, The Mandalorian x you
Comments: 13
Kudos: 38





	1. Cafes and Whiskey Bars

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for this chapter: Food and alcohol mention

They operate in the darkest corners of the city, unseen. Quiet whispers, ghosts living among the hustle and bustle of the streets and skyscrapers. Everyone has heard stories about them, and everyone knows never to ask questions about them. Best to just live your life like they don’t exist, and you’ll be fine. Some people don’t believe in them, and they are the blissfully ignorant. It’s a peace to not know of them.

Who are they? Well, didn’t I say it was best to not ask questions?

~~~~

Rain paints the sidewalks of New York as it falls in gentle drops from the springtime sky. The people of the city that never sleeps make their way through the streets; building to building and stoplight to stoplight as they go about their days. It’s a constant hustle and bustle, a constant cacophony that drones in the background of life. One learns to tune it out as they live their life here. You have.

Your feet splash through the little puddles building up from the drizzle, your umbrella in your hand to keep you dry as you head to your favorite coffee shop. It’s a little place, a hole in the wall run by a lovely Italian couple who remind you very much of your own grandparents in the way they dote on you. Sweet and caring and always insisting on you taking an extra cannoli with your coffee.

The welcome bell chimes above your head as you make your way inside, embraced by the warmth of the cozy little shop. It’s packed with patrons today, everyone seeking comfort from the day’s rain outside. Folding up your umbrella, you slip it into its little bag to keep from dripping water everywhere as you fall in line. A soft smile plays on your lips as you look around, watching the patrons chatting or drinking their espresso and you wonder for a moment what brings a smile to their lips. The line shuffles forward slowly until eventually you’re there at the counter, smiling at the praise of Nonna Romano.

“Nonna! Please you have a line!” you laugh as she waves her hands, typing in your usual before shooing you off to the side. “But what about payment?” Your brow furrows as she insists you step aside.

“No no no! You’re here too much! We will give this one to you this time! Go, go. Go sit and Nonno will bring it to you.” You give in with a sigh, nodding as she continues to shoo you off. You realized very early on that there was no arguing with this woman. Scanning the café, you find one single table open along the back wall and you make your way over, settling in before pulling out your journal and a pen. Rainy days like this are perfect for writing, might as well make use of it.

You notice after a moment how people seem to avoid where you’re sitting, as if forming a bubble of space around you and the table next to you, and your lips pull down into a slight frown. Glancing around, all you notice is a man sitting next to you, dressed in a slate grey pin striped suit. A grey fedora sits atop his head, angling down to obscure his eyes, and his black turtle neck comes up over his chin, mouth, and nose. He wears a pair of black gloves as well as he thumbs through the paper, an untouched shot of espresso sitting in front of him. An odd ensemble, but you aren’t one to judge. After all, New York has all kinds.

Your attention is drawn from the man beside you as Nonno brings over your drink, this time paired with a biscotti and a slice of their ciambella honey cake. You attempt to protest, but the elderly gentleman just clicks his tongue, insisting you need something sweet to help fight off the cold that the rains will bring. He reaches over and pinches your cheek affectionately and you beam that happy smile of yours at him, laughing before he turns to head back to the kitchen to help with the rush. Just like family.

Content with your little snack and coffee, you tuck into your writing, the pen flowing across the page. It doesn’t take long for you to feel eyes on you, watching you. The hair on the back of your neck stands up and you glance up, looking around. Your brow furrows when you don’t see anyone looking. The man next to you is intimately occupied with the paper in front of him, espresso still untouched. Tapping your pen against your lips, you shake it off before resuming your writing only to feel that unsettling feeling again. This time, you continue to write and only glance to the side out the corner of your eyes. The man beside you has his head tilted towards you subtly, observing you. A smile tugs at your lips as you look back to your work.

“You know, it’s rude to stare,” you murmur, not looking up from your work. The eyes don’t leave you this time.

“Sorry,” comes a gruff, quiet voice, muffled slightly by the fabric covering his face.

Setting your pen down, you pick up your cup, angling your body to look at the nearly completely covered man. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you here before.”

“You haven’t.”

“So why the change? New in town?”

His shoulders shake with a borderline amused huff. “Hardly. I’m working.”

“Well, I should hardly think staring at me is your job, Don Misterioso.” You flash him a confident smirk before tipping back the rest of your coffee and packing away your journal. He tenses for just a moment at the name before it’s replaced by his cool and relaxed posture. He watches you get to your feet, making no move to follow. “By the way, I’d not drink that espresso shot. It’s dead at this point. Have a good day, masked man.” That smirk is still firmly in place as you tap the end of your umbrella on his table before making your exit. His eyes follow you the whole way, glinting under the shadow of the fedora. _An interesting man,_ you think to yourself as you meld once more with the crowd ever present on the street of your city.

Several days pass before you return to your little coffee shop on yet another rainy day, this one much cooler. You shiver softly as you step inside, quickly moving to the counter to place your order before making your way to the same table as before. You notice him instantly sitting there the same as he was before, fedora low over his eyes and untouched espresso sitting in front of him. “Back again?” you ask as you sit, hanging the umbrella from the opposite chair. He simply grunts, nodding oh so slightly. “Still working?”

“Not this time.” His voice is still gruff and low and you can’t help but enjoy the sound of it, finding it pleasant.

“Then what brings you to the little café where you don’t drink your espresso?” Your eyes flick to the untouched cup before looking back to him.

“The company,” he states, tilting his head towards you.

“Charmed,” you quip, sitting back as Nonno once again brings you more than you ordered, giving you a smile before appraising the man next to you with a concerned gaze as he heads back to the kitchen. You sip from your latte, settling into your chair.

“They seem to like you here.”

“I’m a regular here, they treat me like family. They’re empty nesters, so I feel it’s an attempt to fill that void.” Your eyes drift back to the man next to you. “I don’t think I ever got your name.”

“Call me Mando.”

Your eyebrow raises at the strange name. “Okay, Mando. That’s… odd.” Shaking your head, you offer him your own name and he nods. “You aren’t a man of many words, are you?”

“Never have been,” he replies, fingers tapping on his table as he scans the room before looking back to you.

“Not a man for crowds either, hm?”

“That obvious?”

You shrug, taking another sip. “Call it a hunch.” You catch the breath of what sounds like a short laugh, the feeling of Mando’s eyes burning into you. “Hell of a stare you have there, Mando.” He quickly looks away, reaching up to tug at the brim of his fedora.

“Sorry.”

“You know, for a man who says he came back here for the company, you’re awful difficult to talk to.” You raise an eyebrow as he looks back to you and part of you wishes you could see the eyes that watch you from under that fedora. How intense must they look to leave you feeling this weight?

“I’m not used to having company.” The admission carries with it an air of embarrassment, his hand balling into a fist on the table. “I don’t know how to start this conversation.”

“Well, get to know me and I’ll get to know you. What is it you do?” Curiosity has been eating at you since you had crossed paths with him a few days prior, but an itch at the back of your mind tells you you may not get all the answers you want just yet.

“I work in debt settlement. You?” Debt settlement. What an odd way to phrase that.

“I’m a writer and editor for a local paper. The one you were reading last time, actually. I edit for a publishing company and write music on the side.” His hum paired with lack of response weighs heavy on you, the conversation feeling… rather tedious. “You know what, here.” You pull out your pen, quickly scrawling down your number on a napkin and hand it to him. Gloved fingers take the napkin from you, looking it over before tucking it in the breast pocket of his suit, behind his blood red pocket square. “When you decide you actually want to talk and not have me carry the conversation, give me a call. We can meet somewhere without the crowds.” Standing, you grab your coffee cup, having requested it in a to go cup this time, and smile down at the mysterious man called Mando. “Think about it,” is all you say before once more taking your leave, Mando remaining in the café with eyes following you the whole way out.

Nearly three weeks pass, and you all but forget about the strange masked man in the café. An errant cold snap has brought with it a late snow storm, confining you to your small home on the edge of town. You have no desire to brave the cold to walk to the train, nor brave the cold to walk to your café, so inside is where you stay. All the better, you suppose, as here you can actually focus on your editing that you’ve ended up behind on. That endeavor is quickly sidetracked, however, when the ring of your phone breaks your focus, flashing with a restricted number. You frown, answering with your professional greeting.

“It’s me,” comes the gruff and quiet voice and a smile tugs at your lips.

“Mando. I was beginning to think you had forgotten about me.” A chuckle meets your ear, tugging a wider smile across your lips.

“I want to take you up on that offer to meet. Someplace less crowded.”

“It’s 18 degrees and snowing outside, Mando. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Then I can come to you,” he states matter-of-factly. Your shocked silence clues him in and he speaks up again. “If you’re alright with that.” The options weigh themselves in your mind as you worry your lip between your bottom teeth.

“I don’t want you knowing where I live yet, Mando. I don’t know you, you’re practically a stranger.”

“Then come out. I know a place. It’s public, but secluded enough that it’s not crowded like that coffee shop.” Your head lolls back against the back of your chair and you fight the urge to sigh. You really _really_ don’t want to leave the house today, detesting the cold. “Please?”

For a moment longer, you’re silent before sighing and giving in. “Fine. I’ll come out. Where?” Mando lists off an address not too far from where you live and your brow furrows. “The whiskey bar on 12th?”

“You know it?”

“My best friend runs it.”

Mando is silent for a moment before responding with a simple “Good to know.”

“Alright, I’ll be there in about an hour, okay? I need to get dressed and get over there. I’m assuming you’ll be in that pinstripe suit and fedora again?” You’re tone is playful, but you’re only partially playing.

“Am I that predictable?” Your lips quirk up at the borderline playfulness in his own voice. “I’ll see you in an hour then.”

“See you.” The call drops and you lay your head back again with a groan. It’s too cold for this nonsense.

An hour later, as promised, you make your way into the dimly lit whiskey bar. The haze of rich cigar smoke floats around you, quiet jazz playing in the background. Hardly anyone is here today, most people sane enough to stay home when the weather outside is as miserable as it is. What does that say about you, having decided to venture out yourself? You shake your head to clear your thoughts, hands stuffed in the pockets of your pea coat as your eyes scan for Mando. It doesn’t take long to find him sitting at a table alone in the very back corner, once again an untouched glass in front of him. The subtle raise of the brim of his hat lets you know he sees you too. You throw a cursory wave his way before stopping by the bar, ordering a glass of Talisker single malt scotch before making your way to the masked man, glass in hand.

“You came,” comes that gruff voice, richer now that it isn’t laced with the tension being in a crowd brings.

“I’m nothing if not a lady of my word, Mando.” You smirk, sipping from your glass as you eye his own. “Why do you always order things if you never drink them? Twice I’ve seen you let your espresso shots die untouched on your table, and now that glass of brandy is sitting untouched as well.”

“How do you know it’s brandy?” he dodges, tossing an arm along the back of his booth seat.

“I told you my best friend runs this place. I’m intimately familiar with the liquors sold here, and the glasses in which they’re served. Besides,” you chuckle, crossing your legs under the table as you lean forward to rest your elbow on the table top. “You don’t strike me as a whiskey man. Nor scotch. You prefer something richer, sweeter. Something smoother on the tongue. A little pleasure, no?”

“You’ve spoken to me for all of twenty minutes in our three meetings, and you’re able to determine that?”

“It pays to be observant, Mando.” You take a sip of your scotch, the pleasant burn helping to drive the cold from your bones. “But for all the observation I can do of you, there’s only so much I can learn from a man completely covered.” You gesture to his outfit, eyebrow arched. “What’s up with the getup?”

“This is the way I do things. Always has been.” He slides the stem of the brandy snifter between his fingers, swirling the amber liquid in the glass as he watches it. “You said you’re a writer?”

You purse your lips and nod, sitting back. “Yeah. Aspiring author, anyways. Or music phantom writer, we’ll see which breaks first. Right now it’s just enough to make ends meet while allowing me a little bit of self pampering on the side.” You hold up the glass enough to indicate exactly what you mean.

“What kind of music?” Though rough and quiet, he sounds genuinely interested and you can’t help but smile.

“Piano and vocal duets.”

“You sing?”

“Oh gods no, I sound like a dying cat when I try to sing. I’m a lyricist, is all. I can play the piano well enough, but I write lyrics for others to sing.”

He chuckles, eyeing his glass. “I enjoy listening to the piano. It’s my favorite instrument.”

“What about you? Do you play?”

“No,” he says with a shake of his head. “In my line of work, I don’t really have time to learn or indulge in something like that.”

“I thought you work in debt settlement?”

“I do.” The answer is short and clipped and you can tell immediately he doesn’t want to talk anymore about it, so you change gears.

“Are you from around here? The New York area, I mean.” You eye your nearly empty glass before knocking back the rest and setting it down. Mando slides the snifter across the table, offering it silently to you. “You sure?” He just nods, sitting back again and you offer a quiet thank you.

“I might as well be. I’ve been here since I was a child. I don’t recall much of life before New York.”

You hum as you bring the snifter to your lips, thoughts moving a mile a minute at what that might exactly mean. His fingers drum lightly on the table as he watches you from the shadow of his fedora. “You’re staring again, Mando,” you tease as you set the glass back down. The sweetness of the brandy is a sharp, yet pleasant contrast to the scotch you’ve finished, and it imparts its sweetness to your words. “A penny for your thoughts?”

“You’re interesting,” comes the simple reply, causing you to tilt your head.

“I’m flattered, but how do you mean.”

“You’re the observant one, surely you saw how everyone stayed away from my table in the coffee shop both times I was there.” Your brow furrows, thinking back. It’s true, a little bubble of space had formed around you both the last time you were there, but you hadn’t given it much thought. “That’s my usual. People see me and stay away. But you sat right down beside me and started talking to me. You’re interesting.”

“A man completely covered is an odd sight, but no reason to be wary.” Your nails tap at the glass in front of you. “You don’t have much in the way of friends… do you Mando.” It’s not a question, you know he doesn’t. Everything about this man _screams_ loner. He turns his head, looking away from you and if you could see his face, you’d see the frustrated embarrassment painted across it. “It sounds lonely, living that way.”

“It’s for the best.”

“So why have you reached out to me, then?” You lean forward, pressing and curious.

His head turns back and you can feel that invisible stare locked on you again. The tension in the silence between the two of you is thick enough to cut with a knife, but you don’t back down. You want to know; _need_ to know. “I don’t know,” comes a gentle reply, Mando’s clenched fist relaxing as he finally breaks the silence. “I just… wanted to see you again. And I don’t know why.”

With raised eyebrows you sit back, bringing your glass once more to your lips. “I think you’re tired of being alone. Tired of being lonely,” you murmur over the lip of your glass before taking the final sip. “A soul knows what it needs, even if the mind refuses to acknowledge it. Maybe yours needs a friend.” You set the glass down next to the other empty one, tracing your finger around the rim.

“And what about you?” he fires back, drawing your gaze again. “Why did you give me your number? Why did you agree to meet me when you know nothing about me?”

“Because I think that maybe my soul is tired of being lonely too,” you whisper, a shiver running down your spine from the intensity of his gaze. You avert your eyes, looking up to the back wall lined with pictures of 1930’s New York, all in black and white with men dressed none too differently from how Mando currently is. “Because I think I need a friend.” You hear Mando sigh, looking back to him.

“I don’t know if I’m friend material.”

You feel your heart ache at how forlorn he sounds, and your hand moves of its own volition, resting atop his own gloved one. “Mando, I don’t care what you _think_ you may or may not be in terms of ‘friend material.’ You reached out to me so… Let’s give it a go.” You raise your hand from his, holding it out to shake. “What do you say? Friends?” He watches your hand for a minute before taking it in his own, giving it a firm shake.

“Friends.”

A satisfied smile plays at your lips as you sit back, crossing your arms. Mando fidgets a bit in his seat before leaning forward to speak when his phone rings. “Excuse me.” He stands, crossing the room to take the call. When he returns, he doesn’t sit again. “I need to go. Work.” You look up at him and catch the slightest glint of light from his eyes. “This was… nice. I’ll call you again sometime.”

You stand yourself, pulling on your coat and buttoning it up. “Sure, just make sure it’s sooner than in three weeks this time.” You flash him a playful grin and he chuckles, nodding.

“I’ll do my best. I would offer to escort you home, but I really need to go. It’s apparently urgent,” Mando sighs, tucking his hands in his pockets.

“I understand. Duty calls and all that.” The two of you make your way to the door, hesitating for only a moment when you breach the outside. “Remember, sooner than three weeks.” You shake your finger at him with a playful seriousness and he nods. “Good luck with work, Mando.” That smile of yours flashes across your lips before you turn to head home, hunched in on yourself for warmth. It’s at that moment that Mando makes his decision. You can never know what it is he does for a living. Never. 


	2. Come Over

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a few meetings, you finally opt to bring Mando over to your place. But when he shows up for the second time later that night, you begin to worry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: food mention, alcohol mention, death mention, murder mention, dislocated shoulder

True to his word, the next time the man called Mando reaches out to you, it’s sooner than three weeks. His caller ID lights up your phone about a week after your last rendezvous, this time while you’re out at the coffee shop once again, taking some time for your own works. You can’t keep the smile out of your voice as you answer, setting your pen down across your open journal.

“You busy?” his voice rasps through the earpiece and you chuckle. Always so straight to the point, he was.

“Not in the strictest sense of the word, no. What’s up?” You sit back in your chair, tucking your hand into the pocket of your jeans as you look out the window. The weather has been strange lately, snowy one day, sunny and warm the next as it was today.

“I want to see you again.”

“Do you now?” You lean forward, resting your elbows on your little table as you feel a heat begging to flood your cheeks while your heart speeds up in your chest. 

“Yeah,” he rasps in barely a breath. “Can you meet me?” 

“Well, that depends on where you want to meet,” you reply coyly. “I’m not exactly dressed for a fancy whiskey bar this time, Mando, even if my friend _does_ run the place.” You hear a breath of air on the other end of the line that you are almost certain is a laugh, and it causes your lips to perk up in a smile.

“No whiskey bars, I promise. I can text you my address.”

“Because that doesn’t sound sketchy at all,” you tease, already putting your journal and pen away. “That’s fine, text me where you are and I’ll let you know my ETA. I’m at Nonna’s shop right now, to give you some idea.” Throwing your bag over your shoulder, you give a wave to Nonna as you make your way out onto the New York street, blending in with the crowd.

“I’ll see you soon.”

“Sounds good.” You tap the screen to end the call, raising an eyebrow when the text comes through. Mando is at an old park on the edge of town, not far from where you live once again. You almost wonder if he already knows where you live, but brush off the idea as quickly as it pops up. There’s no way he could know, you’ve done well to keep your location information off any public network. Plus, he really didn’t strike you as the stalker type. Dark and brooding while lacking social skills, yes, but no stalker.

When you finally make it to the park, it doesn’t take you long to find the suited man in the fedora. “You know, I really hope you aren’t shooting for inconspicuous, because you stick out like a sore thumb in that get up.” He shrugs, pushing off the tree to meet you on the sidewalk.

“Call it a uniform.”

You shake your head with a chuckle as you turn to walk along the path, hands shoved in your pockets. “I never pegged you as the type of guy to want to go wander around parks, you know.”

“Less people here,” is all he says, almost like talking is making him uncomfortable, like he’s needing to shake off the cobwebs as he remembers how to interact with another person.

The two of you walk in almost uncomfortable silence, you kicking rocks along the path before you finally look up at him. “Why did you want to see me today, Mando?”

“Do I need a reason?” he retorts, tilting his head to face you. How his eyes still manage to be concealed, you have no idea. You arch an eyebrow at his comment, thrown a little off guard.

“Well, no, but I’m starting to think that you just call me when it’s convenient for you. The radio silence between meetings is a little odd, even if it _was_ only a week this time. That and your calls have a sense of urgency to them that makes me think something’s wrong.” You kick the rock again, this time startling a group of pigeons from the walkway.

“I’m… sorry. I’m not used to this whole ‘friends’ thing.” He looks away from you as you turn to look up at him again, a frown on your lips. “I usually keep to myself. Like I said last time, I just… wanted to see you again.”

“I’m glad you wanted to see me again. I wanted to see you again too. Like I said, I think my soul is looking for a friend, and I guess it chose you. I probably have some things I need to teach you, as far as being friends goes,” you contemplate, tapping your chin. “You’ll get the hang of it soon enough, I’m sure. You seem like a quick learner.”

And so the little meetups continue; walks in the park or meetings at your friend’s whiskey bar with conversations usually led by you. It became clear to you rather quickly that Mando is by no means a man of many words, not wasting ten when three would do. The meetings never last long, him always being called away by some urgent matter at work. Between meetings, however, things get better. You and Mando text sporadically when you can’t meet, occasionally having a phone call to pass the night. But even with all of these meetings and conversations, the man behind the suit still borders on a mystery to you. You ask about his work, his life, but the answers are always evasive and non-committal, and you try your best to not let it get to you.

Today, you once again find yourselves wandering the park near your home. It had become a standard meeting place, since most would rather go to Central Park. The day is a dreary one, clouds blocking out the sun. It’s chilly and windy and the air smells strongly of a promised rain as you eye the sky nervously. “You’re worried,” Mando states and you let out a humorless chuckle, feeling his eyes on you.

“I’m not a fan of getting soaked.” Your eyes flit to him before back to the sky. “It’ll be really cold if it rains, and there’s no cover out here.”

“We could cut today short, if you want.” The tone of his voice makes it clear that this is the last possible thing he could want and your heart clenches with guilt. You nibble your bottom lip as you mull over your options. You’d met with this masked man over a half dozen times and he hadn’t tried to hurt you or pry any information from you that you weren’t ready and willing to give. Maybe bringing him home wouldn’t be too bad.

“Why don’t we go to my place? I don’t live far from here.” You can feel his gaze boring into you as you keep your own on the ground, kicking the loose stones of the walking path.

“You sure about that?”

You snort, rolling your eyes as you look up at his obscured face. “Look, Mando, you haven’t done anything to me yet, and you don’t strike me as the type to try and lull me into a false sense of security.”

“Thanks… I think.”

With a playful nudge to his ribs, you give him a smile. “I’m sure, Mando. I’m _confident_ you won’t try to like… murder me while I’m getting a beer or anything like that.” You can’t see it, but beneath the fabric covering his face, Mando smiles as he watches you walk ahead of him, leading him to your home.

When you make it, it’s not a moment too soon. The sky bottoms out, drenching the sidewalk as you welcome Mando into your small home to the low rumble of thunder. “You can hang your hat on the coat rack, if you’d like. Anything to drink?” You offer more out of politeness than anything, knowing he’s never eaten or drank in front of you in the two or so months you’ve known him. 

“I’ll keep it on, thank you. And no, I’m alright.” He stands in the entryway, looking around as you head to get yourself some water started for tea.

“Make yourself at home!” you call from the kitchen. The masked man makes his way slowly into your home, eyes scanning every inch he can see. Your house is small and simple, but it suits you, he feels. You have movie and Broadway posters framed all around the living room, accented by fairy lights draped around them. He stands in the center of your living room, gloved hands in his pockets when you finally make it back out. “You know, you can use the couch. Or do you normally just stand around in the middle of your own living room?” You smile and follow your own advice, taking a seat on the corner before patting the spot next to you as you curl up around your steaming mug. Hesitantly, he sits beside you, and you can practically feel the tension radiating off of him. “You know, for it to be me who currently has a masked man sitting on her couch, I’d color you as the nervous one here.”

The tilt of his fedora is so slight, you almost think you’ve imagined it until he opens his mouth. “Sorry. New places leave me tense is all.”

“You seemed pretty relaxed in the coffee shop and whiskey bar a few weeks ago.”

“Not the first time I’ve been there. I know where all the exits are, all the hiding places.” He shrugs and your eyebrow shoots up.

“Why in the name of all that’s holy do you need to know _that_ about a place?”

Mando fidgets in his seat, adjusting his suit jacket as he clears his throat. He had slipped up. Of course no normal person would need to know that about a place. “You can… never be too careful these days,” he manages to get out in an attempt to play off his slip up.

“Bull.” You lean forward, eyes bright and curious as you peer over your mug at the man looking quite out of place beside you. “What is it you _really_ do for work, Mando?”

“I told you, I work in debt collection.” He glances over at you before looking out the window. “That’s the truth.” His words are clipped, laced with tension that draws more concern from you than you would like.

With a huff, you sit back to take a sip of your tea as you watch him. The two of you sit in an uncomfortable silence for several moments, the rain beating against the window as lightning cracks the sky. 

Finally, you’ve had enough of it and decide to take this conversation somewhere completely different in hopes that he will at least attempt to relax around you the way he seems to in the park or whiskey bar. “Do you watch any movies?”

His head swivels back to you when you break the silence, posture relaxing infinitesimally. “I used to. Work keeps me away from stuff like that.”

“Then let’s watch a movie. Better than sitting in silence.” You reach for the remote, settling in as you flick on the TV. It’s the news, once again reporting on what appears to be the next in a long line of assassinations. Before you can flick the TV to Netflix, you let out a long sigh. “I don’t get it.” You can feel Mando’s eyes practically boring through you, and so you continue with a gesture to the screen. “So many murders. All big names in industry and economy. Wealthy names. I feel like I’m in The Godfather or something like that.” A humorless chuckle passes through your lips as your eyes flit to the said movie’s poster hanging on your wall, and Mando _aches_ at how accurate that statement is. “Seven key murders in the past two months. It’s the highest we’ve seen of something like this in a long time and I just… don’t get it. It’s been a long time, decades even, since the Mob was active like this.”

“The Mob?” he rasps and you nod, your frown deepening. 

“What else could it be?” 

Mando’s heart pounds in his chest, his blood rushing in his ears in the way it normally only does when he’s about to pull the trigger. His hands ball into fists on his knees as he watches you, hating the way your lips turn down in a scowl while your brow furrows with your agitation. He hates it. He hates sitting here, knowing just who that man was and just how it is he died. He hates knowing his last words were a miserable plea for ‘just a little more time.’ He hates knowing that the gun that killed that man currently sits strapped at his side in the chest holster under his suit jacket. He hates it… because he sees what it does to you to see the outcome of his work. And he hates the thought of you ever looking at him like that. You… can never know.

Your eyes finding his even through the obscuring shadow of his hat draws him from his self-loathing. Hunched shoulders betray your worry. “Do you think they’ll stop soon?” Such a soft voice from those beautiful lips, it causes his heart to throb in a horrendously painful way and he struggles not to gasp at the feeling. The list of names is tucked into the inside breast pocket of his jacket. He knows the answer. _No._

“Let’s hope,” he mumbles, adjusting his jacket again as he sits back into the couch. “Turn this off, it’s upsetting you.”

Your eyebrows raise at that _;_ the concern is unexpected but not unwelcome. Heeding his demand, you quickly change the channel, bringing up Netflix to put on something ~~~~more mindless. It’s… odd, to say the least. It’s clear that Mando doesn’t really understand the concept of just relaxing. Even having sat back in his seat, his body language still reads as if he is high alert, like at any moment he would bolt for the door. You’re not paying attention to whatever romcom you ended up putting on and your mind is racing a mile a minute as you steal the occasional glance at the man beside you. “Do you trust me, Mando?” you finally inquire, your voice soft as you set your mug down on the coffee table. He tilts his head to cast a sideways glance at you, his hand clenching a little tighter as he hesitates to answer.

“I… do.”

The answer brings a small smile to your lips as you settle further into the couch, resting your head against the arm rest as your eyes begin to feel heavy. “Good. I trust you too.” His eyes don’t leave your figure as you try to refocus on the movie in front of you, which proves to be an exercise in futility on your part. The comfort of your home paired with the patter of rain against the window makes it so it doesn’t take long for you to begin to doze off, try as you might to fight it.

Mando watches you as you sleep, reaching to the back of the couch to pull the throw blanket down over you. You mumble, grabbing the blanket to pull it tighter around you and beneath the mask, he smiles before it falls from his lips once more. This was selfish, trying to get close to you, and he knows it. But even still, he wants this. He wants this more than he’s wanted anything in a long time. He takes your gentle snores that eventually fill the air as his cue to leave, turning off the TV for you before quietly making his way to the door. He hesitates there, glancing back at you sleeping peacefully on your couch and for a moment he’s overcome with an intense longing to stay. That is, until his phone buzzes in his pocket and reality comes crashing down around him. Another hit tonight, another name off the list. He sets his shoulders, tugging the brim of his fedora down further as he turns, heading out into the downpour.

By the time you rouse from your nap, the sun has set and the storm has calmed to a light drizzle. A frown tugs at your lips when you realize Mando is nowhere to be seen. He must have slipped out after you dozed off and you curse yourself for having stayed up so late the night before. With a yawn, you rise from the couch, heading to make some soup or something for dinner while your stomach growls in protest of its neglect. As the water boils, you chew your lip in thought. Debt collection. It didn’t _sound_ like Mando was lying when he said that, but why on earth would he need to know escape routes and hiding places wherever he goes? You pinch the bridge of your nose and sigh. There was definitely something he wasn’t telling you. What that was through, you have no idea.

You are shaken from your contemplation by a frantic knock on the door. Your brow furrows at the sound, glancing to the clock to see it’s well after eight. No one should be calling at this hour. The knock repeats, no less frantic and your frown deepens. When you make it to the door and check through the view glass, however, your whole demeanor changes. With a gasp, you yank the door open to see Mando there, cradling his right arm against his chest and soaked to the bone.

“M-Mando?”

“Sorry to just drop in.” His voice is strained, coming out through gritted teeth as he cradles his arm against him. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

You step back from the doorway, ushering him inside. You rest your hand gently on his shoulder and he winces away, much to your concern. “What happened? What’s wrong. Your arm is hurt.”

“Shoulder. It’s out of socket. Got into a fight. Any chance you can put it back?” Your stomach flips and Mando doesn’t miss how you turn a little green around the gills at the idea of doing that. “I can do it myself but it’s hard.”

“No, no, I can do it, I’ve taken first aid. Go sit on the couch.” He nods, moving past you before you dart down the hall, coming back with a belt. “Do you want to bite on this?” He shakes his head, breathing ragged. “I don’t want you to bite through your tongue or crack your teeth.”

“I’ll be fine, just make it quick.”

Hesitantly, you put the belt down before carefully bracing yourself on his arm, straightening it out as he winces. “On three, ok?” He nods. “One, two,” You snap his arm back into place with a sharp tug and shove, the nauseating pop making you extremely grateful for the fact that you hadn’t eaten yet. He swears in such a way that every sailor at the peer would be beet red at hearing him. He slumps over, trying to catch his breath as he cradles his arm.

You watch him with worried eyes, sitting slowly down beside him, and when he finally catches his breath, he attempts to make light of the situation. “You should see the other guy.”

With a sigh, you stand up, going to get him a glass of water that you’re almost certain he won’t drink. “What the hell, Mando? Why didn’t you go to the hospital?”

“Can’t.”

“What?”

“Can’t. I just… I can’t. Please don’t ask why, I can’t tell you the answer to that.” _And I don’t want to lie. Not to you._

His voice is so pained, and for the first time since meeting him, your heart thrums anxiously in your chest as you take your seat next to him once again. His shoulders are slumped in an almost defeated manner, his head lowered. “Are… you hurt anywhere else?”

“Just my pride, but I don’t think you can fix that with your first aid course.” He lets out a soft chuckle that quickly dies when he sees the look on your face. His blood runs cold, seeing the worry he’s caused you and he lets out a sigh. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come here.” You reach out for him as he stands, grabbing his sleeve out of reflex alone.

“You… you can stay for as long as you need to, Mando.” Dammit, why does your voice have to be so _soft?_

He hesitates, looking down at you. Your eyes are genuine, but the frown is etched deeply into your face, and he hates that he’s the one who put it there. Gingerly, he removes your hand from his sleeve, taking a step back and when he speaks his voice is full of remorse. “I… I shouldn’t have come here.” He takes another step back, hesitating for only a moment before he’s heading to the door, out and into the rain before you can scramble to your feet to stop him.

“Mando, wait!” you call to him from your doorstep, but he doesn’t stop, crossing the street before disappearing into the night.

He shouldn’t have come.


End file.
